


in a day

by Batman



Series: jaywalkers [7]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-25 04:17:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6179875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batman/pseuds/Batman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s just not fair, he thinks. Really, it’s just not fair that such a person should exist at all, let alone in his immediate vicinity. He’s at university to study and mind his own business and laugh at eighty three percent of the campus population, not for…this. Things are not going his way. That’s putting it lightly, to be completely honest. In fact, if he chose to symbolise the concept of things going his way as a slowly growing rosebush or something, Kuroo Tetsurou would be the pyromaniac throwing a Molotov cocktail at the rosebush. Kei’s roses are on <i>fire</i>.</p><p>‘My roses are on fire,’ he says to Yamaguchi. </p><p>‘I see,’ Yamaguchi says. ‘How many drinks did you have again?’ </p><p>Today in jaywalking: September blues, scandalous dancing, and Shimizu.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in a day

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [не все сразу](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12142068) by [MsFlaffy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MsFlaffy/pseuds/MsFlaffy)



> HELLO...IT'S ME...
> 
> I just got done with midterms and of course the first thing I decided to do was put up another instalment! Now featuring more content from Iwaizumi the Angry Review Guy, a decent dose of sophisticated thirsting on our narrators' parts, and all-around disaster as always. 
> 
> (Title because Rome wasn't built in a day, and neither was Vertigo. Probably.)

**RILAKKUMA BANDAIDS ARE NOT APPROPRIATE NIGHTCLUB ATTIRE: AN EXPLANATION OF THE BUTTERED CAT PARADOX AND WHY TWENTY-YEAR-OLDS SHOULD NOT BE INVESTING IN ANIME FIGURINES**

_ by Iwaizumi Hajime _

LET ME START BY SAYING THAT THIS IS NOT ACTUALLY THE WORST THING THAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT. BUT THAT THING WAS SO TERRIBLE THAT I WOULD RATHER FOCUS ON THIS. BUT, BRIEFLY: POLE-DANCING WAS INVOLVED, AND TERRIBLE POLE-DANCING AT THAT, ON OIKAWA TOORU’S PART. AND YOU KNOW WHAT, I JUST DON’T LIKE OIKAWA. I DON’T LIKE THE GUY. I DON’T LIKE THE THINGS HE CHOOSES TO DO AND THE THINGS HE CHOOSES TO BE. ALSO, DID YOU HEAR ABOUT SHIMIZU.

ACTUALLY, AS I SIT HERE AND TYPE, I HAVE A REALISATION THAT I AM BLESSED BY Gecko Tooru TO NEVER REALLY BE PHYSICALLY AFFECTED BY THE CATASTROPHIC EVENTS THAT UNFOLD AROUND ME. I MEAN YES, THAT TIME I HAD TO EAT THE MISERABLE MCFLURRY IS STILL FRESH IN MY MIND AND I DO NOT FORGET AND I DO NOT FORGIVE, BUT GENERALLY I SEEM TO ESCAPE SITUATIONS RELATIVELY UNSCATHED. WHICH IS MORE THAN I CAN SAY FOR OTHERS, FOR EXAMPLE OIKAWA TOORU.

THE STORY, HOWEVER, STARTS NOT WITH THAT TERRIBLE PRINCE OF THE NETHERWORLD, BUT WITH ANOTHER TERRIBLE PRINCE OF THE NETHERWORLD. KNIGHT MAYBE. POSSIBLY LOW-TIER RPG MERCHANT. THE MAN I SPEAK OF IS SAWAMURA DAICHI. NONE OF THIS WOULD HAVE HAPPENED IF SAWAMURA DAICHI HAD NOT, ON ONE FINE MORNING, DECIDED TO CRAWL THROUGH THE RECESSES OF THE INTERNET AND FIND AND ORDER A FIGURINE OF SASUKE UCHIHA.

THIS WOULD HAVE BEEN THIGH-SLAPPINGLY HILARIOUS BY ITSELF, BUT WHAT ACTUALLY MAKES THE TRANSACTION SPECIAL IS THE NATURE OF THE PRODUCT. THIS SASUKE FIGURINE CAN APPARENTLY HOLD UP FUCKING ANYTHING. SAWAMURA, WHOSE INFANTILE PERSONALITY WAS PROBABLY DRAWN TO THIS CONCEPT, DECIDED TO EXCHANGE ACTUAL CURRENCY FOR A CHANCE TO EXPERIMENT.

I'M SURE SUGAWARA MUST HAVE TRIED TO STOP HIM. WE ALL KNOW OF SUGAWARA'S GENTLENESS, AND MOST NOTABLY THE BEAUTY SPOT NEAR HIS EYE THAT [Editor's note: I think we have already established that half the university third-years have an infatuation with Sugawara Koushi. Moving on.] 

WHAT WE HAVE ESTABLISHED HERE IS THAT SAWAMURA BOUGHT A SASUKE FIGURINE THAT CAN THEORETICALLY TAKE OVER FOR ATLAS. THE NEXT ROLEPLAYER OF OUR STORY IS Count Dracula. Count Dracula, WHO WE ALREADY KNOW AS A FELINE DEITY NOT ENTIRELY UNLIKE Gecko Tooru SAVE FOR HIS POSITION IN THE HIERARCHY OF IMMORTALS, WAS ALSO PRESENT ON THIS FATED EVENING. SADLY, WITHOUT HIS OWNER. BOKUTO, WHO HAS BEEN KNOWN TO HAVE ACCIDENTALLY SMOKED Count Dracula's CAT FOOD AT ONE POINT, WAS CATSITTING FOR HIM.

INCLUDING Gecko Tooru, WE NOW HAVE OUR THREE MOST IMPORTANT ROLEPLAYERS. THE REST WERE ONLY CATALYSTS.

WHAT ACTUALLY HAPPENED WAS THIS: TO CELEBRATE THE LAST WEEKEND OF HOLIDAYS, US FATIGUED THIRD-YEARS HAD DECIDED TO GATHER IN OIKAWA'S CHAMBERS FOR A MEAL BEFORE WE SET OUT TO VERTIGO TO WATCH BOKUTO BE BASICALLY AN INEPT HUMAN BEING AROUND THAT DISC JOCKEY OF HIS. SAWAMURA, FOR INEXPLICABLE REASONS, DECIDED TO BRING ALONG THE RIDICULOUS FUCKING SASUKE FIGURINE. HONESTLY, WHAT THE FUCK SAWAMURA. THAT THING STANDING AT FULL HEIGHT STILL WOULDN'T BE THE SIZE OF MY ENORMOUS [Editor's note: Some students from the design faculty are having a bake sale this Saturday to fund a new unicorn or something! Please go and buy lots of cakes!] AND YOU SPENT I DON'T KNOW HOW MUCH MONEY ON IT. ANYWAY.

WHILE LAUGHING AT SAWAMURA'S ATTEMPT TO BLATANTLY LIE THAT IT IS IN FACT _SUGAWARA_ WHO BOUGHT THE FIGURINE [Editor's note: What even, Sawamura. Sugawara has _standards_.] WHICH, WHAT EVEN, SAWAMURA, SUGAWARA HAS _STANDARDS,_ IT WAS IN FACT OIKAWA WHO BROUGHT UP THE IDEA OF PLACING Count Dracula ON THE FIGURINE.

" ♫ Oikawa, no. I don't think that's a good idea.  ♫ "

NOW SEE, EVERYONE SHOULD LISTEN TO SUGAWARA. OIKAWA, WHO HAS A DEATH WISH ON SIX DAYS OUT OF SEVEN, DID NOT. PICKING UP Count Dracula WITH HIS EVIL HANDS, HE PROCEEDED TO PLACE THE CREATURE ON THE TEXTBOOK SAWAMURA HAD ALREADY BALANCED ON SASUKE UCHIHA'S UPTURNED FEET. 

"All right, I'm out," KUROO SAID, BRIEFLY RETURNING TO THE LAND OF THE LIVING. "This is the worst idea in the — OIKAWA, NO."

BUT IT WAS TOO LATE. OIKAWA HAD ALREADY PLACED Gecko Tooru ATOP Count Dracula. 

WHAT HAPPENED NEXT IS AN EASY GUESS. Count Dracula, ALREADY PRONE TO PUBLIC DISPLAYS OF DISPLEASURE, LOST HIS LITERAL FUCKING SHIT AND FLEW SPREAD-EAGLED AT OIKAWA'S FACE TO PRESUMABLY CLAW HIS EYES OUT. SO ABSORBED AND ALARMED WAS I BY THE COMBINATION OF THE CAT'S HISSING AND THE EAR-SPLITTING SHRIEK OIKAWA LET OUT, THAT I WAS PERHAPS THE LAST ONE TO NOTICE THAT Gecko Tooru HAD CALMLY FALLEN FROM HIS PREVIOUS POSITION TO A NEW, RECLINED ONE ATOP THE STILL-BALANCED TEXTBOOK.

IN CONCLUSION: THE SASUKE FIGURINE, IF WORTHY ENOUGH TO HOLD BOTH Count Dracula AND Gecko Tooru, IS 10/10 WOULD BUY. 

(THE FOURTH-MOST DISTURBING PART OF THE EVENING WAS PERHAPS THE FACT THAT OIKAWA REFUSED TO PUT BANDAIDS ON HIS SCRATCHES UNLESS I PUT THEM ON FOR HIM. THE THIRD-MOST DISTURBING PART WAS THAT THE BANDAIDS WERE RILAKKUMA. THE SECOND-MOST DISTURBING PART WAS THE KISS THAT WAS BLOWN AT ME IN THANKS.

THE MOST DISTURBING PART IS SOMETHING I WISH NOT TO SPEAK OF UNTIL I HAVE RECOVERED FROM IT. AS I MENTIONED ABOVE, IT INVOLVED POLES.)

 

●●●

 

Something that should be clarified immediately is the fact that Tsukishima Kei does not dance. Not in the cute, flustered _allow oneself to be dragged by friends to the dance floor and then shuffle and catch a hot stranger's eye_ way, but rather in the strict, disciplined _if you try to make me dance, I will leave immediately_ way. He doesn't have some kind of tragic reasoning for it, no blushes. Just the pure fact, excruciatingly beautiful in its simplicity: he does not dance. Not after one drink, not after five.

This, however, has never stopped his friends from trying to make him. Indeed, every time they go out, Hinata (who has not consumed a drop of alcohol in his life and will never do so if Kei, Yamaguchi and Kageyama have something to say about it) puts up the most amazing attempt to drag, physically, Kei by the hand into the nearest dancing crowd. The visual, he's been informed, is hilarious. Hinata leaning backwards dangerously, pulling on Kei's arm in vain while Kei stands there absolutely glued to the ground. To be fair to Hinata, he is approximately half Kei's height. Or comes up somewhere around Kei's knees or something. He hasn't bothered to check.

Currently, Hinata is latched onto both of Kei's wrists, while Kei curls his fists into the insides of his pockets and steadfastly ignores him. The gremlin does have an unnatural amount of energy, but Kei is one of those proverbial trees with strong roots, feet steady on the miraculously not-all-that-grimy floor of Vertigo's bar, strong in the face of the redheaded storm, etcetera etcetera. Happy hour ended a few minutes ago, which means the attractive disc jockey is now on duty.

Beside him, Yamaguchi slides over a tequila sunrise and nudges Kei's elbow with it. 'On me.'

Kei nods and waits for Hinata to give up. He does, the moment a favourite song of his comes on, and bounds off to the dance floor where some of their other equally gremlin-like friends, in spirit if not in size. He can hear Goshiki's greeting through the first nonsensical verses of the song, and sighs and turns towards the bar, takes his drink in his hand. Finally.

He'd counted on getting some rest and relaxation during this break but since that went down the footwell of the Cherry Red Prius, he's just going to find his solace in alcoholic orange juice instead. He takes a sip and closes his eyes, lets the beat thump in his chest, lyrics about grooving and moving going in one ear, out through the other. It's all good. Classes start again on Monday, he'll settle back into routine, speak to his professor about—

'Tsukki.'

There is, of course, the matter of his headphones. It isn't as if he doesn't have spares, but it's really not the same thing, and—

' _Tsukki._ ' The tugging on his elbow is insistent now.

' _What._ '

Yamaguchi only motions with his head, and when Kei follows the gesture he nearly drops his jaw, drink, and will to live on the miraculously not-all-that-grimy floor of Vertigo's bar. There, on the dance floor, beyond other students who have cleared the path of sight as if only to flip him the cosmic bird, are who he really does not wish to acknowledge as—

'Isn't that Bokuto and—'

'No,' Kei says. 'No, it isn't.'

 

●●●

 

That Oikawa managed to recover from Count Dracula’s assault is not surprising at all to Koushi, because he has seen the boy jump back from worse things after all, including every single occasion upon which Iwaizumi has unleashed the wrath of his reviews and fists on him. Oikawa’s resilience could be seen as stubbornness by some, but to Koushi it is purely impressive on a stunning scale. 

He does have to admit, though, that it is the slightest bit demoralising to see the boy killing it against one of Vertigo’s poles while actually studying God knows what at university, whereas Koushi probably couldn’t dance quite like that in spite of being a _dance_ major. Not with those absolutely shameless expressions, in any case. Drunk or not, Oikawa always makes for a spectacle, if for nothing else, then for Iwaizumi’s reactions. Said angry reviewer looks just as scandalised as expected, so Koushi knows there will be a scathing monologue about club etiquette in a few days.

One of the times Koushi is most content is when he gets to see the action of a room flow around him and cut through it himself, almost unnoticed but physical enough to be a part of it himself. In those moments, it has always been Daichi to give him that element of fixed strength, and he gravitates to him every time they are surrounded by people. 

Waiting now for Daichi to return with their drinks, he turns on his heel and laughs at the sight in front of him. Kuroo is waiting identically for Bokuto, who is taking his sweet time to dance over, holding two bottles of something that Sugawara would probably not enjoy consuming. (But then, Bokuto has always taken to alcohol with a propensity that screams _this should not be feasible for an average human being_. It’s what lands him into most of his predicaments, after all.) 

Kuroo reaches out and pulls Bokuto forward across the last couple of feet between them, and Bokuto comes along with a laugh, wrapping his arms around Kuroo’s neck. Koushi shakes his head and turns back to the pole, then spares a glance for Akaashi, laughs again when he sees the boy staring openly at Bokuto. It’s too long of a distance for Koushi to decipher the look on his face, but instinct and timing tells him that Bokuto isn’t leaving Vertigo tonight without being on the victim’s end of some interesting events. 

‘Drinks,’ he hears from behind him, and spins around, fixes a bright grin on Daichi. He is so easily handsome tonight, as every day; open checkered shirt, his favourite jeans, dark shoes, short-cropped hair all over the place already. Daichi’s answering smile makes warmth bloom in Koushi’s chest, and he accepts his tall glass with a nod. ‘Say, did you see Shimizu?’ 

‘No,’ Koushi says, frowns. ‘What happened?’ 

Daichi opens his mouth to answer, but then Bokuto is bounding over and throwing an arm around his shoulders, yelling something about how it’s the last night for a while that they’ll be able to dance so that’s what they’re supposed to do. He leaves just as quickly as he came, pulled back to Kuroo silently as he always is whenever they go out (and otherwise too), and leaves Daichi raising an eyebrow at Koushi and grinning.

‘Shall we, then?’ he says, and Koushi holds up a finger, lifts his glass and swallows all its contents steadily. The sickly sweet taste of it makes him cringe just a little, but Daichi’s laugh is worth it.

Koushi tightens his grip on the glass and inches closer to Daichi, slips his arms around Daichi’s shoulders, smiles up at him as the warmth spreads a little.

‘Let’s,’ he says. 

 

●●●

 

Kei has never really been one of those people who turn every minor inconvenience into a catastrophe. When he swallowed the dishwashing liquid, for example, his reaction was not really at par with the threat to his life. On the other hand, there are some events that can be only be described as catastrophic. He just wishes most of these events, as of lately, did not have to do with one single human being.

A month. He’s known Kuroo Tetsurou for a month, in which the guy nearly drove him over, stole his headphones, looked infuriatingly handsome in suits, made him listen to a Lennon song twenty times in a row, and now this. There is literally no reason for the boy to be ruining his life with such a vengeance. By which he means that Kuroo and Bokuto are in the centre of their circle of devilish fellow third-years— who he distinctly remembers willing _far, far_ away from Vertigo for _one_ fucking night of his life— dancing. 

Dancing is one way to put it. Technically, the wild flailing, jumping and hollering that Hinata does could also be classified as dancing— so could that frankly stunning series of moves Oikawa is pulling against one of the poles— so could the— is that _Shimizu_?— so could the practiced roll of Sugawara’s shoulders. And yet, he only really has eyes for Bokuto and Kuroo, all other sights blending into his peripheral vision, shapes in motion under the lights. 

They seem to be in their own world, despite their friends laughing at them. Kuroo’s eyes are drifting closed now and then, and Bokuto has the most indulgent smile Kei has ever seen on his face. He doesn’t know where to look, gaze flitting everywhere— their sharp profiles; Bokuto’s hands on Kuroo’s waist; Kuroo’s on his shoulders; the way the movement of their legs is flawless even to his eyes— back up to their faces as they raise their eyebrows, shake their heads, sing the lyrics to each other; down to Kuroo’s hands moving over Bokuto’s chest— and up again, following the climb of Bokuto’s own hands, a laugh on Kuroo’s lips as Bokuto leans over to whisper something probably diabolical into his ear. 

Kei sits down heavily on a barstool, giving up immediately on closing his mouth. 

The problem, he decides, is entirely a discord with logic. It doesn’t make _sense_ for Kuroo to look the way he does— black shirt, sleeves rolled up to expose arms that look like they could smash bricks like the cakes they work to make; perhaps the same pair of jeans that first annoyed Kei what seems like a century ago; that ridiculous hair of his, standing up in every which way; the very definition of _will probably laugh while ruining your life_ —   _and_ dance the way he is dancing. The roll of his hips, the way he tosses his head to lean back and speak to Bokuto— Kei didn’t even realise when he put his back to Bokuto’s chest— all of it goes against every bit of logic Kei has ever been taught in his life. Baker, management student, a siren of a singer, part-time life-ruiningly proficient dancer— there has to be a catch—

Kuroo nods at something Bokuto says, and Bokuto sways in close to press his lips to Kuroo’s jaw briefly. 

Kei’s mind goes into static, only mildly processing Bokuto bounding off to where the disc jockey is calmly engineering the background music to Kei’s utter crisis.

‘Well,’ Yamaguchi says. 

Kei doesn’t reply. His drink is suddenly not strong enough, and he wonders how Yamaguchi lives through things like this without alcohol, but he seems content with his Coke. Kei sucks on his straw miserably and tries to stare at Kuroo Tetsurou without catching his eye.

For the first time this month, it feels like the universe might be gently nudging him back to the path of righteousness, because his ogling is interrupted by the sudden presence of someone in his space. He (perhaps reluctantly) looks away from where Kuroo is laughing and spinning Sugawara around to some other song now, and towards the new entry.

Before he can question why the attractive disc jockey from hell is standing so close to him, said attractive disc jockey from hell is sliding another tequila sunrise towards him.

‘For when you’re done with that one,’ he says, tilting his chin towards the lifesaver in Kei’s hand. 

Yamaguchi has gone still beside him, but Kei honestly hasn’t recovered enough from the previous assault on his consciousness to be confused. He mumbles a thanks and clears his throat, bites his lip. Of course he’s been bought the occasional drink, but he can read that the attractive disc jockey is not here to bed him. In fact, he’s pretty sure that he intends to bed Bokuto at some point, which, to each their own. Just because the concept is personally horrifying doesn’t mean it’s the same on a general scale, and he does know Bokuto to be quite popular.

‘Last night out before classes?’ 

Kei nods. ‘Excuse me, but—’

‘Akaashi,’ he says. ‘And this is Ennoshita.’ 

It’s only then that Kei actually notices the boy behind Akaashi, and he’d feel like he was being ganged up upon if Ennoshita didn’t look so exhausted with life. His heart goes out to the guy immediately; the defeat in his eyes is very familiar to Kei. It’s the precise kind of defeat he felt in his being when Yamaguchi told Kuroo about the dinosaurs. It’s the _I regret that this person is my best friend but these are the cards life has dealt me_ kind of defeat. 

‘Tsukishima,’ he says. ‘And Yamaguchi.’ 

Strangely enough, the way Akaashi plunges straight into small talk is actually more surreal than the residual mental images of Bokuto and Kuroo, and between his comments on the ambiance and staff, Kei manages to wrangle out that Akaashi is under the mistaken impression that he and Bokuto are friends. 

‘I saw the pictures from your shoot,’ he says. ‘I actually just wanted to tell you that I think they’re quite amazing.’ 

‘Oh,’ Kei says, takes an extra long sip when the memory of all that traumatic leaning forward resurfaces. ‘Thank you. Bokuto _does_ know how to operate a camera.’ 

‘Oh, much more than that, I’m sure,’ Akaashi says, smiling. Kei snorts and concedes with a nod, and picks up the second drink.

‘To what do I owe this?’ 

Akaashi smiles wider. ‘You looked like you needed a pick-me-up.’ 

‘Believe me, I always need a pick-me-up,’ he deadpans before he can stop himself. 

Yamaguchi bursts into laughter behind him, and Kei thinks, as Akaashi settles onto the stool beside his and orders a drink, that Yamaguchi is going to be bursting into a lot of laughter tonight.

 

●●●

 

Koushi, while enjoying the buzz that comes after two or three glasses, does not really like being drunk, and hence avoids anything that might lead him to that. His abstinence combined with Shimizu’s ability to drink anybody and everybody under the table usually makes them the couple that has to get all the other incoherent giant children home in one piece. It has never been a duty he has had a problem with, because seeing their shenanigans more than makes up for it. Even though Shimizu’s strangely missing tonight, it doesn’t matter, because so is Bokuto. For the latter, Koushi doesn’t have to try too hard to come to a perfect reason; he’ll have to call up Akaashi tomorrow. He’s not above demanding details.

‘Suga,’ Daichi is slurring into his shoulder, latched onto him from the back while Koushi leads him forward to Kuroo’s too-far car by his arms. ‘Don’t wanna go back to class.’ 

‘You do,’ Koushi says. ‘You just don’t want to wake up early.’ 

‘’s the same thing. Gonna sleep through Sunday.’

‘No you’re not. You promised we’d get new flowerpots tomorrow.’ 

To say that Daichi and Koushi are childhood friends is a bit of an understatement. Their mothers, having known each other before their births, made sure to put them in the same kindergarten and have never really looked back since. Koushi has seen (even if he doesn’t remember) Daichi toothless, then with small milk teeth, then with the gaps that came with them falling out, then with every awkward voice change that came with adolescence. The first time he understood the little hope that his mind had begun harbouring— the summer of their sixteenth year, with Daichi’s strong form running and diving into the ocean, and his voice from the waves, calling _the water’s perfect, Suga, come on_ — started something of a new chapter in his perception, even though nothing changed because nothing had to.

A little over a year later, those same strong arms were lifting boxes of utensils and hauling them up the stairs to their new, shared home. Much like their mothers before them, Daichi and Koushi have never really looked back since. 

He curls his fingers a little more around Daichi’s hands, raises them, waves them a little. ‘You’re going to break my spine one of these days.’ 

‘You tired?’ Daichi stops, and Koushi is pulled backwards. ‘C’n carry you. Want me to carr’you?’

‘Carry him,’ Oikawa says, and Kuroo is only laughing and shaking his head. It’s something after three in the morning and Koushi is on a plateau of contentment, eyes closed as Daichi attempts to lift him, lips loose around a laugh when Iwaizumi curses and rushes to save him as the attempt fails. He winks at Daichi over Iwaizumi’s shoulder, thankful that Iwaizumi hasn’t drunk a lot either as he’s transported efficiently in a bridal carry.

‘I hope Kuroo can manage those two back there,’ Iwaizumi chuckles. ‘Us sober people need a break too, huh. After all the shit I’ve seen on this night, especially with Shimizu.’ 

‘Daichi’s going to put salt in your coffee at some point, you know.’ 

‘Oh, I know.’

Koushi laughs and arches his back, leans back in the safe grip of his friend’s arms to stare up at the starry sky. It’s something after three in the morning, Daichi promised they’d get new flowerpots tomorrow, and Koushi doesn’t have a care in the world.

 

●●●

 

Thankfully, they decide leave before any of their seniors. Yachi had made them promise to get home before midnight to sleep on time, and while they do ignore her advice on some occasions, Yamaguchi is particularly insistent on following it this time. Not that Kei minds. In fact, he is the one to bring the idea up in the first place, after seeing, in _excruciating_ detail, Shimizu pressing some tall stranger against the wall and kissing them. There are some things that mankind is not supposed to lay eyes on, including that. 

‘Tadashi,’ Kei says faintly, letting his straw fall from his lips. ‘I want to go home.’ 

‘A good idea,’ Yamaguchi says, already stepping off his stool. ‘I’ll round up the children.’ 

Hinata puts up a spectacular fight as usual, but between Kageyama and Yamaguchi, they manage to drag him away from the dance floor and buy him a grape soda in compensation, even if Hinata and sugar is a combination that has only ever brought regret in the four years that Kei has known him. 

They bid their goodnights to the staff— Kei even manages to wave to Akaashi— and step out into the chill of the night with deep breaths. Kei, in particular, is more relieved than he’d like to admit that he’s away from the terrible building where he witnessed so many terrible things in the span of just one evening. 

As they walk slowly towards campus (well, he and Yamaguchi. Kageyama is making an attempt, but Hinata is sprinting backwards in front of him and excitedly yelling at him of some new move he read about the other day. Kei admires both Hinata’s fervour and Kageyama’s lack thereof) Kei tries, systematically, one last time to forget the image of Kuroo standing under the lights and smoke, skin tinged blue and thrown into relief, the erratic rise and fall of his chest as he caught his breath, the way his throat worked to swallow from the bottle his fingers were curled around the neck of. 

It’s just not fair, he thinks. Really, it’s just not fair that such a person should exist at all, let alone in his immediate vicinity. He’s at university to study and mind his own business and laugh at eighty three percent of the campus population, not for…this. Things are not going his way. That’s putting it lightly, to be completely honest. In fact, if he chose to symbolise the concept of things going his way as a slowly growing rosebush or something, Kuroo Tetsurou would be the pyromaniac throwing a Molotov cocktail at the rosebush. Kei’s roses are on _fire_.

‘My roses are on fire,’ he says to Yamaguchi. 

‘I see,’ Yamaguchi says. ‘How many drinks did you have again?’ 

‘And also, I saw Shimizu kissing someone,’ he continues, not without a tremor in his voice. ‘Which, what the _fuck_.’ 

‘Oh, you too?’ Kageyama calls from behind them. He sounds breathless, so Kei turns around to see him finally conquering Hinata, hauling him over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry. ‘I thought I was drunk or something. I mean, I thought I saw Oikawa-san on the pole.’ 

‘Yeah, no,’ Yamaguchi says. ‘That happened. Also, I think he’d be insulted if you passed it off that way. He was _good_.’ 

Kei stops short, as does Kageyama. They both blink at Yamaguchi. Honestly, in the haze of Bokuto and Kuroo’s scandalous show, he _had_ completely forgotten the sight of Oikawa against the pole. Now that it’s coming back to him at the speed of a freight train with confirmation of its actually having happened, he feels an urge to just sit cross-legged on the ground and wait for morning.

Hinata, squirming over Kageyama’s shoulder, fixes him with a look.

‘Tsukishima,’ he says. ‘Do you want a hug?’

‘No, Hinata,’ Kei replies. ‘I do not want a hug.’

‘Kenma says I’m good at hugs.’ 

‘Please go hug Kenma then.’ 

‘But you look like you need a hug.’

Yamaguchi, once he’s done bursting into laughter for the seventeenth time this night, gently flicks Hinata’s calf. ‘I could use a hug.’ 

‘Tobio, put me down.’ 

‘Not a chance in hell.’ 

‘Tobio. Put. Me. Down.’ 

Kei tunes them out and looks ahead, to where their residence blocks are comfortably rising up against the near-black sky. Bed, Akiteru’s shortcake, and some form of memory erasure. 

He never thought he’d be actively looking forward to 8:00 AM macroeconomics on Monday, but there’s a first time for everything. Like pole-dancing bodyguards of reptilian gods, Shimizu actually allowing a mortal to kiss her, attractive disc jockeys from hell buying him tequila sunrises, and the slight buzzing he felt somewhere in his stomach when he first saw Kuroo dance. 

 

●●●

 

Iwaizumi’s new review might be the most popular yet in his career of a year and a half, but Daichi is not as amused by the boy’s poetic description of that one spot on Koushi’s face. 

‘Why doesn’t he focus on _his_ pretty boy,’ he mutters, and Koushi laughs into his  tea. ‘Not that _you’re_ anyone’s pretty boy or anything. I mean. Well, you know what I mean.’ 

‘Quite flattered that you don’t look beyond my appearance, yes,’ Koushi chimes, laughing and dancing away to avoid Daichi’s frustrated flick of the dish towel. ‘We have a performance next week, you’ll be there?’ 

‘’Course I will. With Shimizu? Did you hear about her?’

‘No, but I’ve heard about hearing about her.’ 

‘Well, apparently almost everyone saw—’

In two years of living together and many more of spending mornings making breakfast, Koushi has never quite managed to reduce the time he needs to recover from the laughing fit that Daichi’s scream at the ping of the toaster inspires in him. They’ve had the same toaster for almost all of eternity, brand-loyal as they both are, and yet every single time the toast pops up, Daichi has to make a sound of utter terror. 

It gets to Koushi every time.

‘One day,’ Daichi says darkly. ‘When I die, you’ll see. You’re going to miss me. Who’s going to deal with the spiders?’ 

‘Daichi,’ he says, once he’s caught his breath. ‘I deal with the spiders. You try to speed-walk out of the room and pretend you didn’t see anything.’ 

Akaashi and Ennoshita are at practice, Ennoshita’s camera already poised. Koushi flashes a grin and a peace sign at it, waves to Akaashi before slipping into the changing rooms. As he pushes his hair back with a band and washes his face, he remembers suddenly that he has to discuss some very important things with Akaashi before the boy’s miserable engineering degree kicks back into motion and he can’t lounge around the institute anymore. 

 

That Saturday, even though it is only a couple of weekends after, everyone ends up in their apartment again for Bokuto’s birthday. Koushi makes an offhand comment about Shimizu being late, and watches with confusion as everyone in the room seems to sit up a little straighter.

‘Did I miss something?’ 

‘Did you hear about Shimizu?’ 

‘Right,’ he says, putting his hands on his hips. ‘Is someone going to tell me what actually happened? I’ve been hearing this for a fortnight now.’ 

‘Well,’ Bokuto says in a stage whisper, leaning forward, ‘last time at Vertigo, we kind of…’ 

‘Everyone kind of…’

‘Saw her…’ 

‘Kissing someone,’ Oikawa finishes dramatically. ‘Imagine that. _Shimizu_. _Kissing_ someone. At _Vertigo_.’ 

Koushi blinks. ‘Oh, Michimiya’s back in town? I haven’t seen her all month!’ 

There are seven consecutive beats of silence. On the eighth, the room erupts into chaos.

 

●●●

 

Monday is dawning bright for an autumn morning, but the fog intercepts the sunlight so that Kei’s little kitchen sees only half of it as he fixes breakfast. Getting his co-ordination back after a bad night is always more complicated than he’d choose to reveal to anyone (regardless of how Yamaguchi always catches on anyway) but he manages not to spill the milk despite only having been awake for fifteen minutes.

After the number of members in their household went down from four to two, Kei slept in the same room as his brother for years. Sometimes in the adjoining bed, turning to his side to make out faintly the logo on Akiteru’s hoodie; sometimes under the same blanket. There were times when Kei would nudge Akiteru’s shoulder and Akiteru would shift without a word, raising his blanket and opening his arms. Even on summer nights, it wasn’t too hot at all, and ironically, he’d never once experienced a nightmare back then— his first one came when he turned thirteen and saw Akiteru hesitating over going to university, already two years late. 

‘I’m not a child,’ he’d said as coldly as he could, and Akiteru had promised to come home every weekend, that Yamaguchi’s family was just next door, that their grandmother loved him. He wonders sometimes, still, if moving back to his own room was just one more disservice he did his brother.

He blinks away the residual dream-image of Akiteru’s eyes, coloured like their father’s, and puts the milk away. Notes idly that the red fruits cereal seems to have more red fruits in this packet, that his hoodie sleeves are fraying slightly. And anyway, perhaps one of the most pathetic things is that Kei has never been able to scream.

His classes sweep him into their pace right from the first one, when Kindaichi’s grin and wave and _tell me you did all your assignments yesterday too_ — he didn’t— makes him roll his eyes but with a smile on his face. God only knows that Hinata and Kageyama lucked out by getting recruited by the same university that Kei and Yamaguchi intended to go to, because while those two buffoons blanch at the sight of a textbook, Kei actually enjoys his academia with a steady focus that he doesn’t choose to employ for much else. The note-taking, the assignments, the adrenalin of walking into an exam knowing that he’s thorough with his material, the laughter he shares with his classmates over unconventional case studies, all of it reminds him in its whirlwind pace of why he’s loving university so far after all.

The next week brings another angry review by Iwaizumi, and Furihata from micro laughs until tears come out of his eyes, asks if Kei really did see all this pole-dancing the man is raving about. Kei, in a burst of inspiration, acts it out with a dead look on his face, which brings the lunch table to hysterics. Yamaguchi is shaking his head with one of those smiles on his lips, and Kei sets his leg down, shrugs, picks his chopsticks up again, carefully evades all the curious questions about who the hell Shimizu could have been with at the club. Carefully restricts his mind from remembering the most significant event of that outing a fortnight ago. 

It’s good to be back, he’ll never deny that, and the second semester looks promising. He even manages to throw Bokuto the odd smile whenever he crosses him in the open corridor outside their little apartments, and Akaashi, too, once or twice. (He even manages not to ask about Kuroo, although his ego can be thanked for that more than his restraint— and with the way things are going, the memories of the summer are actually fading as if they belonged only to the summer.) Bokuto’s birthday rolls in three days before his, and while he has to decline the invitation to dinner, he can’t help but wonder if they’ll be going to Vertigo again, if Kuroo will be there. 

The closer it gets to his birthday, the more demanding his friends get about parties and dinners and what his favourite colour is. Despite being mildly annoyed at his high school friends for letting his birthdate become public knowledge, the pleasant surprise at others caring so much makes him want to turn away and hide his face whenever they ask him about it. Even Yachi asks for his size. 

Kei brushes them all off, tells them to focus on their studies for once, and makes a note to take them out for ice cream sometime. _Le Petit Disco Ball_ , maybe.

Damn it.

 

●●●

 

The second semester is a little faster to pick up than the first, with none of the first’s scheduling messes or group divisions. He can imagine why Daichi and the boys were so reluctant to go back to their classes; a thoroughly text-based degree would be heavy to focus on after all this time off. He’s glad that his own classes blend quickly into his days; practices and some theory in the mornings and afternoons, an hour of gym in the evenings; Koushi has always loved the rhythm of routine. 

Autumn sets in fully near the end of September, even the most boisterous among them— with the exception of Bokuto, who is one of those unnerving perpetual-T-shirt people— switching out short sleeves for full ones, shirts for cardigans. Daichi shows up at the steps of the institute in thick scarves, but it’s really the glass of the steaming tea in his hands that always makes Koushi smile. 

‘Getting colder,’ Daichi says, and Koushi hums, eyes on the ground. ‘Can’t believe Bokuto’s still in T-shirts, that magnificent bastard.’ 

‘Iwaizumi too, sometimes.’ 

‘Hmm. I’m glad we have more sense than them.’ 

‘Oh, I wouldn’t say you have a lot of sense, Sawamura-kun.’ 

He expects an annoyed huff from Daichi, but instead the boy laughs and shrugs. ‘I guess I don’t,’ he says. ‘Wouldn’t have made the mistake of living you otherw—’

‘Why, you little—!’

Koushi can’t run after him for fear of spilling the tea, so he just keeps walking and waits for Daichi to stop running and come back. (He always does.)

 

●●●

 

**Bokuto [23:58]**  
EVENING MOONSHINE kuroo says come outside

**Me [23:58]**  
What? I think you have the wrong guy.

**Bokuto [23:58]**  
nop he said tell tsukki to come outside

**Me [23:59]**  
…why? Did you tell him about my birthday? I’m not going outside.

**Bokuto [23:59]**  
ya i did and hes waiting just go outside tsukki.

**Me [23:59]**  
I am not going outside.

**Bokuto [00:00]**  
HAPPY BIRTHDAY GORGEOUS!!! also he says ‘tell him to come outside or so help me god i will honk and wake this entire neighbourhood up’ 

**Me [00:00]**  
Damn it, Bokuto. 

**Me [00:00]**  
Also, thanks. 

 

Kei takes a moment to internally sneer at his heart for doing whatever it is doing, because honestly he doesn’t put it beyond Bokuto and Kuroo to be waiting with a cake to smash in his face and add to the 3 minutes and 47 seconds of blackmail material on him in Bokuto’s library. Why he should feel out of breath is absolutely beyond him, but he takes a slower moment than usual to put his shoes on so that he can regulate his uncooperative body. 

The slight cold hits him the moment he steps outside, and he pulls his sleeves a little lower, stepping over to the railing to look on to the parking lot below. Sure enough, the Cherry Red Prius stands there, colour different under the moon, and he doesn’t know what else he expected but the sight of it kind of makes his throat close up a little. 

Good God, he doesn’t know who the bigger fool is here, Kuroo for showing up or him for descending the stairs.

When he reaches, Kuroo is singing along to something inside the car, stopping when Kei knocks on the window. Instead of rolling it down, Kuroo just grins— okay, that little flip in his chest was utterly un-choreographed and even more unwelcome— and leans over to open the door instead.

‘Sit,’ he says. ‘It’s cold outside.’ 

‘Not that cold,’ Kei mutters, but finds himself sliding onto the seat anyway. The door closes with an ominous sound and he briefly wonders if he should make a run for it after all. 

But then Kuroo’s holding out a hand, and smiling when Kei looks up. ‘Happy birthday,’ he says. ‘How old are you now? Forty? Fifty?’

Kei takes his hand and glares at him. ‘Eighteen,’ he says coolly, and Kuroo whistles.

‘My, that’s young,’ he says. ‘Should I pull your chee—’

‘Please don’t even think about it. To what do I owe this immense pleasure?’ 

Kuroo grins, retracts his hand. In the moonlight and the kaleidoscope of primary colours that his dashboard throws on his face, he looks absolutely different from what he did when Kei last saw him. The image comes back to him again with clarity, and he swallows, almost audibly. Kuroo never noticed him that night, and he’s glad, because he really isn’t sure if he would have responded maturely to this kind of eye contact in that situation— Kuroo is still grinning, looking at him openly.

‘I brought you something,’ he says, turns serious, then, and Kei feels his heart drop to somewhere around his stomach. ‘Since it’s your birthday, I thought it’s finally about time that I returned your headphones to you.’ 

He’s not disappointed. He’s not _disappointed_ , of all things. Not in the least. Of course he wants his headphones back, the spares are good but not as good. This is as good a time as any to finally recover them and give Kuroo a piece of his mind about stealing the possessions of others— _imagine no possessions_ — 

Then Kuroo laughs, loudly, obnoxiously. ‘Just kidding,’ he says. ‘Can you imagine?’ 

Kei splutters. He’s _really_ about to have a stern word with this fucking guy about not being such a pain in the ass all of the time that he is conscious— and probably unconscious, too, Kuroo might as well be the kind of asshole who kicks people and talks in his sleep about pies and Maslow and all sorts of other annoying things— but then Kuroo’s reaching over to the backseat, pulling forward a couple of packages, and he shuts his mouth. All at once he realises that Kuroo is actually here in the Cherry Red Prius, at the stroke of midnight on Kei’s birthday, after just a month of knowing him. 

‘I did get you something else, though,’ he says, and Kei refuses to react because it’s probably going to be some terrible gag present. Rubber gloves or something, he doesn’t know, he doesn’t care, he wants to go back to his room so that he can hide his face in his pillow in peace. Kuroo looks entirely too handsome, eyes downcast over the packages, for this exchange to be happening right now. But when he hands over the first one, flat and wrapped in dark paper, Kei accepts it with a near-silent thanks. Opens it carefully anyway.

He feels the silkiness of the material before he sees it, and only registers that it’s a shirt when Kuroo turns the light on. In its soft golden glow, the shirt looks as delicate as it feels— white with black stripes; very, very familiar. It’s like the shirt he had on for the latter half of Bokuto’s shoot, but in what feels alarmingly like real silk. 

‘I mean it’s not leotards,’ Kuroo says. ‘But it suited you.’ 

Kei betrays the roughly fifty seven instincts that are telling him to just bring the shirt up to his face and burrow into it for fifteen minutes to hide himself, and turns to Kuroo, clears his throat. 

‘Th-thanks,’ he says, immediately berating himself. One word. He managed to stutter over _one_ word, and he never even _stutters_. ‘This is…’ 

Kuroo tilts his head and smiles again, all pleased, sparkling eyes. Kei contemplates just calmly leaving, even as Kuroo hands him the second package, a cream-coloured box with _Le Petit Hedgehog_ ’ _s_ logo on the top. This one Kei is more than enthusiastic about opening, because he really hadn’t counted on getting himself anything special to eat for his birthday.

The sole muffin sitting in the centre has white chocolate drizzled over its exposed raspberries, and a laugh escapes Kei before he can even think to stop it. Of course he would, the brat. Kei doesn’t think Kuroo’s ever going to let this one go, and for a brief moment, the idea of it continuing into the future— the idea of there being a future— makes him smile again, snorting, and he shakes his head.

‘Consider that a personal gift,’ Kuroo says, then frowns when Kei frowns too. ‘What? Oh— right. My dad owns the place.’

Kei makes an acknowledging sound, nods. 

‘Thank you,’ he says again. ‘Really.’ 

‘My number’s on the bottom,’ Kuroo sings, and the moment is gone. Kei sighs and rolls his eyes but doesn’t comment, listens tiredly to Kuroo saying they don’t have to talk through Bokuto again.

‘I don’t know what put you under the impression that I am willing to communicate with you, whether through Bokuto or not, but your capacity of delusion is impressive.’ 

‘Now, now, Tsukki,’ Kuroo laughs. ‘Why fight it when we know you’re going to save the number with a heart next to my name?’ 

‘The fact that you don’t think it’s going in the blacklist is astounding, again, but I suppose you get points for positive thinking.’ 

‘See, that’s the kind of encouragement that keeps me fighting through the battle of life. On that note, I must leave you, sugar. I have an 8 AM tomorrow.’ 

Kei only registers that _sugar_ when he’s already done raising his hand to say goodbye. The realisation leaves him standing in the middle of the parking lot for two entire minutes, holding a cake box in one hand and a silk shirt in the other, in untied sneakers and sweatpants. At this point, if his life was a cartoon, every episode would end with him standing blankly in the smoke the Cherry Red Prius blows behind it. With the inflamed rosebush next to him. 

He tells himself that he’s going to study, when he returns to his room and sits at his desk. He’s going to get back to his studies, because it’s just a shirt and he isn’t trying it on right now, past midnight. Kuroo did not call him _sugar_ either, while he’s on the topic. Not that he was on the topic. Not that there is a topic. 

Five minutes later, he acknowledges that there is a slight possibility of there being a topic. Mostly because he is staring at himself in the mirror, shoulders slumped.

The shirt fits perfectly. 

 

**Bokuto [00:44]**  
Send me a selfie, Tsukishima.

**Me [00:44]**  
No.

**Bokuto [00:45]**  
Fine, I am coming the fuck over.

**Me [00:45]**  
NO. BOKUTO

 

He decides to save Kuroo’s number anyway, just to know whose calls he might potentially be rejecting in the future. But when he automatically opens up the symbols menu after typing out the name, his furious groan coincides with the rap of Bokuto’s knuckles on his front door. 

The roses burn merrily.

 

( _incredible_ artwork by [cranbearly](http://twitter.com/cranbearly))

**Author's Note:**

> sorry_tsukki_part_17.PDF
> 
> So [Ksenya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fyolette) linked me [Bom Bom](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qsy7kJyizoc) by Sam and the Womp like "imagine Akaashi putting something like this on to watch Bokuto and Kuroo light the place on fire" and look I don't know about you but I was sold so hard that I promptly listened to it seven hundred times. I have also a playlist called "god of disc jockeying" with all of Vertigo's extremely mainstream song selection, if anyone is interested.
> 
> But also, relatedly, I have never listened to any Lennon songs on repeat because of anyone and frankly I don't know what you're talking about.
> 
> You can find me on [Twitter](http://twitter.com/soldierpoetking) and [Tumblr](http://sturlsons.tumblr.com). 
> 
> PS: BTW that Sasuke figurine can literally hold up anything. [I shit you not.](knowyourmeme.com/memes/balancing-sasuke)


End file.
